5:Viper
by Math Girl
Summary: After the Olympics, Gordon becomes the target of a kidnapping plot. Follow up to Hammerhead.
1. Default Chapter

_This story follows Hammerhead, and The Date. About a month has passed, and a kidnap conspiracy is developing. Still Alternate Universe. _

**VIPER**

It was around noon in mid-town Manhattan, and Jeff Tracy was working through lunch, again. He sat in his top-floor, corner office, surrounded by heavy furniture and oriental art, poring over a list of recent stock buy-outs. The news was grim, and unexpected. In blocks of ten to a hundred, from this share holder and that, over the course of little more than a week, someone had purchased enough of Tracy Aerospace to achieve very nearly a controlling interest.

Someone was attempting to wrest command of the business away from the man who'd dreamt and nurtured her. Someone crafty enough to use dozens of dummy corporations and lightning swift leveraged buy-outs to challenge the major stock holder; Jeff Tracy himself.

_'Who...?'_ As he clicked through the list of stock transactions, Jeff considered which of his few business rivals might have launched such a potent and stealthy assault. Who would dare? Not Eddie Houseman. His little SpaceTech, Inc., hadn't the capital for purchasing that much stock, that quickly. Not Cassie Brathwaite. Had Cass wished to attempt a hostile takeover, she would have warned him first, over a round of golf and whiskey sours. No, there had to be someone else, someone...

A sudden delicate chime derailed Jeff's train of thought. He glanced over at the lushly papered wall to his left, and saw that the telecom was glowing. Judging from the icon flashing in the upper right corner, Lady Penelope wished a word. Jeff ran a hand through his thick grey hair, and straightened his tie. He was no longer a young man, but still attractive; what he'd lost in youth more than made up for in money and power. Penelope Creighton-Ward, however, was an aristocrat, directly descended from the ancient Saxon nobility of England. She was also an IR operative.

He pressed the accept key, and the telecom brightened at once, transmitting Penelope's serenely smiling image. She was standing before a painted, stormy seascape, one he knew to be housed in the manor armory. Right away, Jeff realized that this was no social call. Still, one never knew who was listening.

"Jeff, _Darling!"_ Penny chirped, exquisitely blonde as a porcelain doll. "How _lovely _to speak with you! I have simply smashing news."

"Lady Penelope," Jeff smiled expansively, leaning away from his massive mahogany desk. "The pleasure's all mine. What's it been..., three, four days since we spoke last?"

"Seven, Darling, of course!" She corrected indulgently, cocking her head a bit to the side.

"Of course. And to what startling news do I owe the joy of seeing your lovely face again?" His voice was deep and caressing, his brown eyes warm.

Penelope blushed charmingly; a mere affectation, (she was capable of summoning modest blushes at will) but quite fetching, nevertheless.

"Well, Dear," she began, just as though gossiping with an old friend, "I was just in Paris for a shoot! The synthesizer is operative and weaving away. I just about killed Francois when he hadn't got it last time, and substituted silk despite my message expressly requesting pennelon! Well, for the general public, natural fibers may do, but closing the season in rags is not in my schedule. Francois says that he's aiming for Versacci's share of the market at the London show. Remember, tea at four. Ta, Darling!"

He lifted a hand, giving her an especially warm smile despite the grave news coded in her message.

"At four. Thank you for calling, Penny. Have a good weekend."

She waggled her fingers at him, then cut off the transmission. Jeff went back to his list, giving no sign by word or action that anything was amiss. Then, twenty minutes after the call, he buzzed his secretary.

"Charlotte!"

"Yes, Mr. Tracy?" the girl's voice came over the comm, bright and sharp as a card of new pins.

"Arrange an appointment with my son, Gordon. Use the LA number, my former wife's residence. He is to present himself no later than seven AM tomorrow morning, and tell him to bring a full report on his marks, and a course list for next school year. Understood?"

"Yes, Mr. Tracy. Seven AM appointment tomorrow with Gordon. Call to the LA residence, and have him bring a report card and schedule. I'll get on it right away, Sir."

He nodded, though she couldn't see him, adding,

"And, Charlotte..., cancel all of my appointments for the rest of the afternoon. Make the usual excuse. There's something I need to take care of."

"Yes, Mr. Tracy. Cancel all of the afternoon's appointments. At once, Sir."

Charlotte was nothing if not efficient. She'd deliver the summons to Gordon. Question was, would it get there in time? And would he listen?

_Los Angeles:_

A beautiful sky, blue and flawlessly clear as a gem-stone, seventy-five degree weather... and the last day of summer school_. Finally! _Alan Tracy bounded off the bus with a joyous whoop, whipped around to face the bright yellow instrument of torment, and shouted,

_"See ya!"_

Then, as his former classmates looked on and cheered, the blond terror whirled his empty book bag around over his head and flung it into Mrs. Carver's hedge. He...was...FREE!

Six weeks of paradise stretched before him, filled with skateboarding, surfing, video games, sleeping till twelve, and hanging around with his brother. Nothing could shake Alan's good mood at this point, short of an alien invasion.

The bus doors creaked shut with a long, windy hiss, andit rumbled slowly off, leaving Alan in blissful solitude. Leaping like a salmon, he punched the air, shouting aloud in English, Polynesian, and the little Spanish he recalled from class. The corner stop in his sunny, palm-lined neighborhood hadn't seen such an explosion of primal joy since the summer before. But, enough delays; he had some serious fun to get to.

Knowing that his neighbors hated it, Alan cut across their smoothly manicured lawns to get home; hurtling hedges, dodging sprinklers and scattering little shredded bits of report card all over Lexington Palms.

The Fergusons set their dogs on him, but the day Alan couldn't outrun a couple of basset hounds was the day he'd check himself into the retirement home. The stupid, fat little dogs were far behind and deeply winded in seconds.

Then, he discovered that the Sawyers, catching wise to his newest shortcut, had 'upped the ante' and electrified their fence. To keep the cats in, Mrs. Sawyer later insisted; to shock the crap out of Alan, the boy knew.

Other than that, though, he got home without incident, glad that his mother was with a client this afternoon, and too busy to answer the inevitable phone calls. The modest white stucco house, with its red tile roof, iron gate and stone wall, had never looked so welcoming.

Alan vaulted the low wall and ran up the drive, slapped a palm on the entry scanner, and flung open the door, shouting,

"I'm home!"

...But his dramatics were wasted on an empty house. He'd known that mom would be out, but it kind of stunk to learn that Gordon, too, was away. Almost as soon as he opened the door, a folded bit of paper fluttered for the tiled floor. Alan bent and caught it, quick as thought, before it could hit the ground. Opening the swiftly penciled note, he read, laboriously,

_"Out to N.Y. for a bit. Father._ _Back late."_

G.D.T.4

Alan grinned to himself. Gordon disliked his initials, saying that they stood for "another God Damn Tracy", so he'd taken to adding "4" to the end, making it "Gordon David, Thunderbird 4".

The word "father" was triple-underlined, the letters in general written so forcefully that the pencil had all but punched through the paper. Not that Alan blamed his brother for feeling stressed. One on one interviews with Jeff Tracy were hardly ever mere heart-to-heart, father/son chats.

"Good luck, Man," Alan sighed, folding up the note and tucking it away in a zippered inner pocket. "You're gonna need it."

Recalling the open door at last, he kicked it shut, then loped into the kitchen for dinner. The telepanel strip lit up as soon as he entered the room, displaying a prerecorded message from his mom. She looked kind of frazzled, probably because it had taken over two hours of bribes and begging to get him dressed and out the door, that morning.

"Hello, Sweetie," the recording greeted him. "I hope you had a good day at school, and that you didn't do anything too... _playful._ I'll be taking Mr. Sanchez out to the Japanese steak house, to discuss the influences, so I've left you dinner in the auto-cook. I've also credited 500.00 to your chip, so you and Gordon can go have fun tonight. Be a good boy, like I know you can, and, Baby...? Make good choices, okay? I love you!"

The last part Alan had mouthed along with the recording, for his mother_ always _signed off with the same tiresome platitude. Like he'd know a good choice if it crawled up and bit him on the ankle! Still, at least she cared..., and after all the crap he put her through, too. That had to count for something.

Opening the wall-mounted auto-cook, Alan pulled out a lidded plate and peered beneath the plastic cover.

"Wow. Dinner. Looks nutritious." The lima beans, green salad and textured protein patty ended up in the waste bin, together with the plate (Alan hated doing dishes). Then he went to the refrigerator and stood leaning against the door for several minutes while he considered the possibilities.

Chips and salsa, leftover pizza, cream soda and oreo cookies thickly smeared with peanut butter were piled onto a tray, and then out he went to the TV room, ready to put his mind in low gear and overdose on junk food. Life didn't get much better, except in Thunderbird 3, or behind the wheel of something fast and nasty.

Gordon arrived about an hour later, looking deeply dejected. Alan launched himself off the couch in a flurry of chips, crossed the room in three bounds, and began throwing playful punches.

"Hey, Bro! 'Bout time you got back (_urf...!)_" This last as Gordon jabbed back, striking him in the gut. "How 'd it go...?"

His brother shrugged listlessly, saying,

"Not so good. He was on about my marks, again, and my course load f'r next year. Says I'm not challengin' m'self enough." Kneading at the back of his neck, where extreme tension was threatening to spark a major headache, Gordon continued. "Had a bit t' say about th' swim team, as well. Seems a couple of pictures got out, and he's afraid I'll be recognized. He... told me t' quit th' team, and go t' the island."

"Whoa..., I'm sorry, man."

Gordon shrugged miserably, more hurt than he cared to admit. They'd wandered into the kitchen by this time, where Gordon proceeded to raid the refrigerator and cabinets, pulling out pretty nearly everything that wasn't red-hot or nailed down. Alan watched, open-mouthed, finally gasping,

"Dude, what 're you _making?"_

"A sandwich."

"With all that?"

"I'm hungry."

Alan rolled his eyes.

"Yeah. That's new." Shaking his head, he continued, "Dude, you better never stop moving, 'cause there's, like, this giant blob of fat rolling along right behind you."

Just for that, Gordon added another three slices of ham. Alan hoisted himself up to sit on the granite counter, and changed the subject.

"So..., what're you gonna do?"

"Not sure," Gordon mumbled, around a very large mouthful of sandwich. "Never thought much beyond competing. All m' life I've trained t' swim. Don't know, really. But, he says... he says it's that, or leave off rescues."

"Oh, man...," Alan looked thunderstruck. "Not much choice, I guess. Is there?" The thought that his brother, his best friend, might choose anything at all over International Rescue, was inconceivable. When Gordon didn't answer immediately, standing there with his hazel eyes locked on the floor, Alan prodded, "Right?"

Gordon sighed.

"Right."

Alan drummed his fingers on the kitchen counter, thought up a quick diversion.

"Hey, man," he said brightly, "the 66s are in. Wanna go check 'em out? The new Viper's s'posed to be major hot. Mom zapped us five hundred to have fun with, so we could visit the showroom..., y' know, go for a test drive, and then cruise out to the mall, or something. Hey, nothing like 450 horses to take your mind off your troubles, know what I'm saying?"

Actually, at a time like this, Gordon would far rather have headed for the shore, to swim out of sight of land, float on his back, and think. But, Alan looked like he'd explode if he didn't get a crack at a 66 Viper, so...

"Right, then. Let's go."

_Elsewhere:_

The General sat in a big leather wing chair, in an office carefully arranged to provide him with full view of any entrants, while keeping him out of direct line of fire. There were seven heavily armed guards posted outside the double doors, and the big picture windows as well, but the General was a cautious man. The automatic weapon on his lap was loaded and ready. Just in case.

Anyone who crossed his threshold would have gone through twelve checkpoints and back-scatter radar scans, as well as a body-cavity search and many thorough pat downs. And no one was admitted without his express consent. He was far too powerful, too necessary, to risk.

What country, what army he was general of, no one could say. For that matter, not one of his many mercenaries, scientists or spies even knew his real name. "The General" they called him, or "Sir". He wore nothing but jungle camouflage BDUs decked with full military insignia, and went always and everywhere armed.

He wasn't much to look at; medium height, slender build, thinning dark hair, close-set brown eyes behind dark glasses, but he burned with a single, deadly passion. He wanted nothing less than to bring down the World Government, seizing power from the chaos and warfare that followed.

To this end, the General had assembled a secret organization of engineers and operatives, such as the one making her way to his office at that moment, from checkpoint 8. He'd been following her progress on his wall monitor, watching the tiny red blip that represented 'Tania' negotiate one checkpoint and guard post after another. At last, she reached the outer door, the one leading to the 'airlock'. The General waited.

Thirty seconds..., they'd be questioning her now, scanning her ID chip. Then, right on schedule, the comm unit on his armrest buzzed. The General deigned to answer.

"Speak."

"Sir," a hard voice called over the comm, "number 71 has arrived. Orders, Sir?"

He smiled slightly, picked up the machine pistol and aimed it squarely at the door, saying,

"Admit her."

"Yes, Sir."

A faint humming noise followed. The outer door had opened. Now she'd be stepping into the 'airlock', knowing full well that once that door shut, there was no escape except at his will, and that the chamber might suddenly flood with nerve gas, should the mood take him. The general stroked a red button on the arm of his wing chair. Handily enough, right beside the comm switch.

The chamber scanned her from top to toe, transmitting the image to his wall screen. She was unarmed, of course. It would have been the height of suicidal folly to come into the General's presence bearing so much as a hatpin. Still, he let her wait a bit, knowing that even Tania, his most useful and willing agent, had to wonder when, and in what condition, she'd leave that airlock.

A long three minutes later, he pressed a switch, and opened the inner door. Tania stepped into the office, cool and unconcerned, despite the automatic pistol pointed at her chest.

"You summoned me, General?"

She was as beautiful as he was ordinary, and in her own way, quite as dangerous. Muscled like a cat, she had jet black hair worn in a long, tight braid, tawny eyes and a slightly unhealthy pallor. Her clothing consisted of a black body suit topped by a military-style equipment vest.

Pausing a moment to emphasize how very much in his power she was, the General lowered his weapon, and nodded.

"I did." He came directly to the point. "All my sources indicate the information is sound. We have a positive match. Proceed with the operation, acquire the target, and retrieve as much information as possible. Leave no witnesses, and no survivors. I want their names," he leaned forward, a weirdly distant look in his shielded eyes. "I want their engineers and leadership acquired or neutralized, and their technology in my hands within the week. Understood?"

Tania smiled thinly, already planning.

"Understood, General."

_San Francisco:_

Cindy Taylor was still at her cubicle that night, sorting through a number of new leads. She was back at work by virtue of some rapid data shuffling by Scott's brother. She stayed, with Jake's blessings, thanks to a sudden influx of hot story leads. City scandals, human interest, unforseen emergencies; all at once, Cindy seemed to have sources everywhere. Jake was a happy man. He shelved his questions and watched the network's ratings go through the roof. And, as long as she kept the stories coming, Cindy could disappear every week for all he cared; in fact, he'd even have approved a little travel stipend. Very little, and very grudgingly, but a sign she'd crawled back into his good graces, anyway.

This latest story, however, hadn't come from her mysterious source. This one she'd pieced together on her own, over the last month or so. Leaning forward in her rolling chair, Cindy rested her chin on one hand, scrolling slowly through a list of names with the other. As the cursor flashed downward, she mentally ticked each victim off, confirming something that would have been merely interesting ten months ago.

Each one had been murdered, in various San Francisco locations, over several weeks. No pattern had been evident in their ages, sex, or financial status. They hadn't been robbed, and at first glance seemed to have nothing in common but the brutal, execution-style method of death. Then she'd dug further, and made the connection. Each and every one of those people... the old lady, the security guard, the travel agent, the stock broker... each one had been air-lifted off the roof of the Starlight Tower, by International Rescue.

The chair squeaked as Cindy leaned back, hugging herself. _Why?_ Mentally, she reviewed the possibilities. Coincidence was definitely out. They'd been hunted too carefully. Might be a crazed weirdo looking for fame, but if so, they'd gone to great lengths to conceal their handiwork. The detectives she'd spoken to had described each body's disposal as almost maniacally tidy. No, the killer wasn't looking to make the headlines. Rather, Cindy's gut told her the opposite; this psycho was doing a job..., looking for something, or_ someone. _

From there the road branched in two directions. One suggested that the killer was going around "cleaning up" for International Rescue, eliminating anyone who might be able to recognize one of the pilots. If so, they were working without IR's sanction. Why bother to rescue people you'd only have to kill later? The other possibility was even worse, from Cindy's perspective.

What if those people had been killed after they'd confirmed someone's identity? From a picture, say. Not Scott's. He'd never been to the roof. Mobile Control had been set up in a parking lot several blocks away from the Tower. She still vividly recalled the clattering helicopters, the choking smoke and hissing water jets, the giant building itself, sheathed in scarlet flame... and Thunderbird 2, hovering above it all, battling updrafts and winds to save lives. Scott had been safe below, with her... Alan in Thunderbird 1, out of sight, but for one brief introduction.

Virgil or Gordon, then. And Virgil Tracy was far from a public figure. Cindy thought back to the Olympics, to the closing ceremonies and victory celebrations, the thousands of flashbulbs and digital movie cameras. How many people had come up to their table that night at the restaurant, having seen Gordon race, wanting an autograph, a look at his gold medals...? The young swimmer had seemed dazed by all the unwanted attention. Finally, Scott had cut the evening short, paying the bill and shepherding his brothers, step mom, TinTin and Cindy away from all the furor. Too late, maybe.

Coming to a sudden decision, Cindy decided to try something. Leaving her file-and-clipping draped cubicle, she headed for the building's roof. Better reception, hopefully, and she needed to place a very important, _very_ long distance call.

Eschewing the elevator (she'd been a touch claustrophobic since a long ago incident with a storm drain), Cindy sprinted up three flights of stairs, bursting onto the roof through a maintenance door.

It was dark up there, and cold. A chill breeze had slithered off the bay, bringing with it a shroud of smothering fog. The Lloyd Building might almost have been alone in a universe of swirling whiteness.

Sitting atop an air conditioner, Cindy pulled out her cell phone. She flipped it open, then sat a moment and stared at the key pad. Cindy knew nothing about Tracy Island, gathering only that sometimes, Scott was very much incommunicado. _He_ generally called _her_, and rarely, at that. There was another option, one whose business it was to monitor communications, but...

_'Damn. No idea how to reach him...!'_ Well, there was always the straightforward approach. Setting up for text messaging, Cindy punched in,

_-John Tracy U out thr- _and hit the transmit key.

_-Go ahd-_ flashed the phone's screen, after a bit. He'd traced the number first, probably. Just to be sure she'd reached the right man, Cindy typed in,

_-How's ur brthr- _

She had to smile when he sent back,

_-Which 1-_

Bingo! Wasting no more time, Cindy told him of the murders, and of her suspicions.

_-Thnx. Will follow up, kp postd.-_

_-OK thnx fr all the leads.-_ She'd figured, by now, that it had to be John who'd been sending her the tips and information. He confirmed it, just before signing off.

_-No prblm. Stay saf/ public. Will montr ths # -_

Then the screen went blank. Cindy flipped shut her phone, and stood up. The fog poured itself slowly past her, haloing the red exit light over the roof-top maintenance door. Feeling suddenly very cold, she hurried back inside, glad to know that someone was watching out for her.


	2. Chapter 2: The Accident

_The boys take a test drive, and Jeff realizes just how out of touch he's become._

2

Earlier that evening, Alan and Gordon pulled into the parking lot of a sports car dealership, Alan so eager he was halfway out of the jeep before Gordon hit the brake.

"C'mon, man! Hurry up!" The youngest Tracy urged, rattling the driver's side door handle. "Before they close!"

Cutting off the engine, Gordon switched on the car's security system, grumbling,

"If they think there's even a chance of a sale, they'll stay open till three, bet on it." Not that they were likely to get much attention, he thought. Both in their teens, and dressed casually, they'd be lucky if they weren't thrown off the lot. But the salesmen might take pity, and let Alan at least _touch_ one of the new Vipers, first.

Hands shoved deep in his pockets, Gordon followed Alan up to the showroom door. His brother lived, breathed, ate and slept cars, especially fast ones. Why, he wasn't sure. Gordon regarded cars as a handy means to get from one body of water to the next, like planes. No accounting for taste, he supposed.

Rather to his surprise, someone came their way immediately. A young fellow, tanned, blond and athletic, with a pen and note pad in one hand. Blowing right past Alan, the guy came up to Gordon, smiling hugely.

"Gordon Tracy, right?" He asked eagerly. "European swim team?"

Only Alan understood Gordon's crestfallen expression, his mute, miserable nod. The salesman never noticed, continuing enthusiastically,

"Two gold medals, three silver, and a bronze! You _ruled_ out there! I swim too, you know. Not competitively, or anything, but I'm still pretty fast. Could I, um... could I get your autograph?"

Alan dug an elbow intoGordon's ribs, suddenly, just as he was reaching for the pen.

"Uh..., right. Sure. And then, could we test drive one of the new Vipers?"

"Absolutely, Gordon. Can I call you Gordon? Be my guest." Then, peering over Gordon's shoulder as he signed the paper, the salesman added, "Just make it out to 'Fred Powers'. Wow, thanks! My girlfriend's, like, never going to believe this! Here, just give me your car keys, and, ah..., if you fellas 'll follow me over to the window, here...,"

Fred led them over to a glassed-in, securely locked booth, where a sweet young thing waited to hand out numbered keys in exchange for one's right arm and first-born child.

"Hey, Jess!" Fred greeted the lithe brunette. "How 'bout the keys to 708-66?"

She stared suspiciously through the glass, looking hard at Alan and Gordon.

"I dunno, Fred, don't they seem a little...,"

"Jessie, it's _fine._" Fred responded, making a quick, sharp quelling gesture. "I know these guys. There's nothing to worry about. The keys, please?"

Jess didn't like it much, but she complied, something about the set of her glitter-frosted lips telling Gordon that she'd be on the phone to the manager the instant Fred's back was turned.

They got the car, though, Fred leading them back through the gleaming display models and out to a heavily guarded lot.

"Here she is," the salesman told them, giving a certain bright red, curvaceous Viper a loving flick with his chamois. Fred took his time showing off her points, opening the hood to display an engine so big and powerful it looked like it belonged in a formula-one racer. She was a convertible two-seater with 450 horse power and a dark leather interior. Stick-shift, of course. Not much storage space, though. No way to haul your tanks and dive equipment, or anything.

"A beauty, isn't she, Gordon?" Fred asked, "You've driven sports cars before, haven't you?" A little anxiously, on the last bit.

"That, I have," Gordon replied, slightly irritated that the deposit and ID scan hadn't been proof enough of his driving record and honorable intentions. If Alan hadn't been so visibly desperate to get in the car, Gordon would have left. As it was, he merely said, "I'll bring her back in one piece, Fred. My word on it."

The keys were handed over at last, the boys got in, and started her up. The engine didn't purr, it snarled. In neutral. Alan looked like he was going to cry. Stepping on the clutch, Gordon put her in reverse and backed smoothly out of the parking space.

No sooner had he pulled out into traffic than Alan set up a clamor to switch places.

"C'mon, man, let me drive!"

"No."

"Please! I'll be careful, I promise! I swear to you, Gordon, let me drive just this once, and I'll never ask again, as long as I live! _PLEASE!"_

"That's what you always say!" Gordon replied testily, swerving around an idiot in a silver Mustang who'd had the nerve to cut him off. Shifting rapidly, he gunned her from 50 to 95 in mere seconds, peeling away from the Mustang like it was standing still. Alan was still arguing.

"Yeah, and every time you say 'no', and then, every time, you give in anyway! So come on, what's one more? I'll be careful, honest!"

He should have known better, but it clearly meant so much to Alan that Gordon once again allowed himself to be persuaded. Finding a deserted-looking stretch of interstate far outside the city limits, he pulled over and switched places with his brother, saying,

"Don't make me regret this, Alan. My insurance is too high, already."

But his brother was too busy fondling the dashboard, the steering wheel and stick to respond. Gordon looked on for a bit, amused despite himself. Then he said,

"Alan, are y' planning t' make love to th' car, or drive it? 'Cause, if you two need some time alone, I can step off f'r a bit."

Snapping out of it, Alan said,

"Shut up, sit back, and prepare to be amazed."

In Alan's hands, the Viper screamed off the shoulder like a missile, barking in all five gears. Hurled back against his seat, Gordon watched in shock as the speedometer rocketed to 220 mph. The wind rushed past them so fast it actually hurt, and Alan hadn't even opened her up all the way. The white road lines blurred together, desert and mountains whipping past on their right, insanely, gloriously, fast.

Alan laughed aloud, pressed the accelerator even harder. He was distracted for just an instant, when one of the wrist comms went off. Gordon's. Good; he could ignore it and keep right on flying down the road. Then, something was there in the glow of his headlights, something huge and dark, coming the wrong way, down their side of the road.

Cursing furiously, Alan down-shifted and hit the brakes, trying to swerve. Instead, he spun out of control.

Panic. Cold, shredding, heart-stopping fear. The Viper flipped, then rolled, careening off the road. Metal crunched and tore. Fuel spilled and ignited. Glass shattered. Alan's last sight was fire, the last thing he heard, his brother's shout, suddenly choked off. Then darkness took him.

_New York City:_

Jeff cut off the telecom, sat stunned and silent for a full minute. After a long night of worry, Gennine had contacted him at his Manhattan office, not knowing where else to turn, when Alan and Gordon failed to come home.

She'd gotten a call from Harrington Dodge, his ex-wife confided, near hysteria. It seemed that the boys had taken a brand-new Viper for a test drive, and never returned it.

"Jenni, calm down," Jeff had ordered, reflexively using her old nickname. "I'll take care of it."

She'd said to him then, choking slightly,

"Jeff..., our son is out there, somewhere, and I don't know what's happened to him, or to Gordon. Jeff, I just want my boys back home, safe. Please, you have to help me find them."

There had been more in this vein, much more, before he'd finally managed to get her off the phone. Calling up Harrington Dodge, Jeff confirmed her story, then credited the dealership 350,000 without a second thought, plus a further twenty-thousand for their silence.

Now, to locate his sons. Leaving orders with Charlotte that he was not to be disturbed, Jeff sealed all the doors and windows and called up Thunderbird 5, using a secure, encrypted line. John answered at once, something about his tired, slightly disheveled appearance suggesting he hadn't slept in awhile. Right away, Jeff became suspicious.

"Were are they?" he demanded, before John had a chance to speak.

"I don't know, Father," his son responded coldly.

_'Okay,' _Jeff thought to himself, _'Calm down, and try again. Can't afford to push him back into his shell. Not now.'_

"When did you speak with them last?"

"I raised Gordon on the wrist comm around 2300 hours, local time, just for a second or so. Then the transmission cut off, and I haven't heard from either of them, since." He was silent for a moment, continuing finally, "Their ID chips have ceased transmitting, as well."

"And why wasn't I informed, immediately?" The edge had crept back into Jeff's voice.

"We thought...,"

"We?"

John grew distant and cold, again.

"Scott and I. _We._ It seemed possible that they'd totaled the Viper, and been too afraid to admit it. So...,"

"So, you meant to cover for them."

"Yes, Sir." John's expression and tone were unrepentant.

"And in the meantime, you've wasted valuable hours that could have been used to...,"

"No, Father. We've been searching since last night." There was more, but squeezing honey out of granite would have been easier than prying a secret from John.

"Very well. I'll deal with the two of you, later. Meanwhile, keep searching for your brothers. Every moment they're gone decreases the chances they'll be found." _Alive,_ he didn't add aloud.

"Scott and Virgil are down there already, combing the area. Penelope is on her way. Other operatives have been notified and activated, as well. It's being handled, Sir." _Without you,_ he didn't say, though he might as well have.

Jeff locked gazes with his son, unsuccessfully trying to stare him down. A thought occurred to him, then; a weak, but growing suspicion.

"And what would you do with Tracy Aerospace if you got it?"

"Beg pardon?"

Nothing. Neither triumph, nor surprise. The blue-violet eyes, so like Lucinda's..., and so utterly different..., contained nothing but chill, barely polite, disinterest.

"Never mind. Just keep up the search from your end. Tracy out."

And then he cut off the transmission, wondering just how, and when, he'd managed to lose his son, and whether there was any chance at all of winning him back.

_Elsewhere:_

He couldn't seem to wake up. His head hurt. Everything did, every nerve shrilling the same fiery alarm throughout the length of his body. But, though he struggled to open his eyes, to think, something held him under like a pile of cement blocks. Something that announced its presence with a sharp-smelling swab, and a cold sting.

People came and went. Time passed. He heard voices, felt needles. And all the while, pain lay coiled just beneath the blanket of drugs; fangs bared, ready to strike. Gradually, he gained strength, gathering awareness one slow thought at a time.

Then came the day that a few last pieces fit themselves together, and he was able to lever himself awake. His eyes opened. Bare walls, fluorescent lights, monitor screens, white jackets. Hospital?

Someone must have noticed his growing alertness, for a doctor soon appeared, hovering blurrily just at the edge of his vision.

"Son, can you hear me?" the man asked, sounding grave and concerned. He tried to answer, managed only a weak grunt.

"Do you know what happened?"

No..., though he thought he recalled a sudden sharp buzzing noise, and... fire?

"Can you tell me your name?"

Effort, painful and exhausting as rolling a boulder up some netherworld Everest. He whispered faintly,

"Alan... Tracy," and then he was gone again, too tired to do anything but lie there and burn.


	3. Chapter 3: Suspicion

_In which TinTin appears, and John gets a notion._

3

_France:_

TinTin had been in Paris, at the Ecole "Belle Monde", when the call came. She was in the midst of cooking class, watching as Madame demonstrated the correct method of preparation of "Truffle Millefuille" (but quietly visualizing the possible tertiary structures of a copper-based hemoglobin substitute). She had a frying and sauce pan in front of her (in fact, it had been the pans' copper bottoms that set her to wool-gathering about the oxidizing potential of cupric compounds), a very sharp knife, shallots, cream fraiche, butter, Madeira and one precious, ugly, strong-smelling truffle.

Then her watch buzzed, its many diamonds flashing insistently. All at once, Madame's mellifluous instructions cut off in mid-sentence. The class halted utterly. Each of the smooth-haired, red-lipsticked heads turned as one, regarding TinTin with frosty disdain. Madame raised a penciled eyebrow and her right hand, pointing dramatically, silently, at the door. Someone snickered.

"Excusez-moi, Madame," TinTin murmured, flushing hotly, as the watch buzzed again, louder this time. "Je suis desolee!"

TinTin just about fell off the tall wooden stool in her haste to gather her books and depart the cooking class.

"A tout a l'heure, Delphine!" one of her classmates giggled, mimicking her accent. The casual cruelty, the lifted eyebrows and smirks, cut her to the bone, though TinTin did her best not to react.

It wasn't until she was outside the room and well down the hall that she let herself explode.

"Imbeciles! Morons!" She sniffed, "I despise them all, and truffles, too!" Not one of the Parisiennes would have passed _her _cooking class, which would have featured test tubes, centrifuges and chemical assay techniques.

Locating a quiet stairwell, TinTin stepped inside, dropped her books, sat down upon a sagging wooden step, and answered the call.

" 'Allo?"

Scott's face appeared, grim and haggard.

"TinTin, listen carefully," he began, the evident concern in his voice driving truffles, classmates and hemoglobin clear out of TinTin's head. "I need you to drop what you're doing and head to Los Angeles. There's a first class ticket waiting for you at De Gaulle. Your flight departs in two hours. Gennine will pick you up at LAX. I need you to stay with her for awhile. Please."

TinTin went suddenly cold, the color draining from her lovely face like she'd been stabbed.

"Alan and Gordon? Will they not also be there?" She asked, apprehension lancing right through her. Scott couldn't meet her gaze.

"We're looking for them, TinTin. There's... been a serious accident, and they've gone missing. But, don't fret," he added hurriedly, forcing a smile. "Knowing the 'Tornado Twins', they've gone to ground somewhere, and 're trying to come up with a scheme to pay for the car before they show their faces."

TinTin could see from Scott's expression that he didn't really believe that. That he was, in fact, withholding something even more worrisome. Leaving her books where they lay, TinTin stood up.

"I will come at once, Scott, and comfort Gennine... But I will also assist in finding my friends."

He nodded.

"F.A.B., TinTin. Thanks for your help. Have a safe flight, and we'll see you when you get here."

With that, he ended the transmission.

To the devil with finishing school! She was needed. TinTin shook her hair out of its prim chignon, then strode out of the stairwell and away from Belle Monde, holding back terror with little more than prayer, and a brave heart.

_Hospitalized:_

He was being over medicated. That much, Alan knew. Almost like they didn't want him to wake up, though they kept asking questions, just when he was at his drugged muzziest. He tried to think about what he was saying, to not answer them, but things kept floating to the surface of his sodden mind like storm-wrack. Not what they probably wanted, though.

Driving a car... then some kind of collision... the desert... fire... his brother...

_His brother. _

Alan waited, desperately hanging on to consciousness, until the doctor returned. It was so very hard to focus, but...

"Gordon...," he managed to whisper. "Where's Gordon? Gotta tell him somethin'."

The doctor's expression changed subtly. He glanced over at the big male orderly who'd accompanied him into the room, then back at Alan.

"I'm sorry, Son," he said very quietly, eyes cold and still as a serpent's. "Your brother didn't make it."

_No_.

"Wh... what're you .. talking about? Shut up!"

"He was thrown from the car you were driving," the doctor continued implacably.

_"Shut up!" _Alan began shaking. Though there was no food in his stomach, he felt the sudden, overwhelming need to throw up.

"He hit the ground, and died on impact."

_"No! SHUT THE HELL UP, I SAID!"_

Despite his injuries and drug-induced weakness, Alan lunged for the doctor, meaning to knock his crooked teeth down his lying throat. It wasn't true! He couldn't have killed his brother...!

He was seized by the orderly, forced kicking and cursing back onto the narrow bed. Held down, while the doctor took a hypodermic from a gleaming tray and emptied its burning-cold contents into the needle port on his IV.

As the black waters of unconsciousness rose about him once again, Alan saw the doctor smile.

_Thunderbird 5:_

John was thinking, jogging around and round the station's inner ring, barely noticing the shifting scenery projected by his computer. Redwood forest, moonscape, coral reef, rush-hour traffic..., he jogged through them all, flogging his tired mind for answers. What was he missing? What had he overlooked? One notion after another came to him, only to be rejected out of hand as already tried, or unworkable.

Then, in the midst of something's very large, undulating digestive tract (terrible smell; sometimes the computer was a little _too_ realistic), he pulled up short. _Damn! They'd been going about this all wrong!_

"Five, form screen, and uniform," he said aloud.

A glowing square popped into existence in front of him, its substance projected, like the overly realistic scenery and perfectly-creased uniform, from the ring bulkhead.

"Whom do you wish contacted, John Tracy?" The computer enquired, simultaneously monitoring his vital signs in every conceivable wavelength, attending to the strident babel of Earth-side police chatter, and holding Thunderbird 5's position in space.

"Call up Brains," John replied, pushing an annoying blond curl out of his eyes. _Time for a haircut, _he thought, irrelevantly. Then the screen sparked, and Brains appeared, his face hovering at eye level, about six feet off the deck.

"J-John?" The dark haired engineer questioned, looking hollow eyed and hag-ridden. "I-is there something I can, ah... I can do f-for you?"

Like the others, he'd been searching; forgoing food and sleep to call police departments, juvenile detention centers and hospitals all over California. It showed, too; his lab coat was stained and rumpled, his thick glasses askew. Not that John looked much better, beneath the computerized "uniform".

"Brains," he began, "what about a genetic sweep? We could ramp up the reach on one of your ID scanners, and use it to search for them, couldn't we? Maybe project the scan from 5?"

Hackenbacker paused a moment, tapping a gnawed-up pen against the bridge of his nose.

"It m-m-might j-just work, John," he said at last, eyes lighting up. "I c-can, ah... can set up the sc-scan with G-Gordon's DNA..., h-h-he has fewer b-blood relatives in, ah... in Los Angeles, and b- broadcast the s-scan with a power boost through, ah... through Thunderbird 5. J-John, I th- thank you for, ah... for c-cutting the Gordian Knot. Nopun intended."

"No problem, Brains," John replied, smiling very slightly. "Not much to do up here but listen and think." Then, returning to business, "I'll set things up on my end. Let me know when you're ready to go."

"Eh- eh- F.A.B., John!" And Brains flickered out like marsh gas, the screen shrinking to a line, then a point, then vanishing altogether.

It was a plan. The first real ray of hope they'd had in over three weeks. If only the boys were still alive. If only they hadn't fallen into the hands of someone like the Hood.

John's fists clenched at his sides. Pushing a sudden wave of ugly visuals out of his head, he turned and stalked back to the control center, snapping instructions to his computer the whole way.


	4. Chapter 4: Too Late

_About time to mention, again, that I don't own the characters, that it's very alternate universe, and that I couldn't have done all this new "Super-chapteriz-ation" without Tikatue..._

4

It was night time, he thought. The lights in his room had been dimmed, and he was checked on much less often. Good.

After watching them for awhile, getting a feel for his doctors' routine, Alan had cobbled together a plan of sorts. Over the last week he'd stopped visibly fighting them, acting relaxed and stupefied, answering their questions with all the docile simplicity he could muster. A great many questions seemed to center on Gordon; what he did, where he went, anything Alan knew about his brother's secret activities.

Completely taken in by his performance, the doctors thought Alan was giving them straight answers, that their drugs had overwhelmed his resistance. They were wrong.

Alan had been fighting meds most of his young life, defeating first Adderall, then Ritalin, and everything else the behavioral specialists could throw at him, and if this latest crew of white coats thought their needles and pills could force him to do as he was told, they had a lot to learn about Alan Tracy.

Early that evening, just after bed check, Alan turned off the monitor and pulled out his IV. He allowed himself twenty minutes to shake off the last dosage, no more. No telling what the monitor was hooked up to, or who might come looking.

He'd decided to get out. He wasn't sure what was going on, but this was no legitimate hospital, or why hadn't his family come? And if these "doctors" had lied to him about that, maybe kidnapping him from the scene of a... from the crash..., maybe they were lying about all the rest. About Gordon.

He got out of bed, surprised at how weak and wobbly he felt... and how injured he _wasn't._ Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to do a high-tech patch up job. Someone who wanted him well enough to talk.

Squinting slightly, Alan began weaving his unsteady way toward the room's single closet. The open-backed, teddy-bear print gown he was wearing just wasn't going to cut it. He needed his clothes.

Somehow, he got to the wardrobe, then clung to the wall for a few seconds, panting hoarsely.

_'Dang...,' _he thought, _'kinda wrung out... but I gotta keep going, gotta find Gordon.'_

Panic welled up, suddenly. More than he could handle. He had to clench his teeth to keep them from chattering. He so badly wanted this to be a dream; to wake up and find himself home in bed, or back at the island, or even slouched at his desk in school, drooling on a math paper. Anything but that he'd crashed a car, and killed his brother.

Silently promising a lifetime of good behavior, if only everything turned out okay, Alan opened the closet door. There were his khaki shorts, sneakers and Hawaiian shirt, put up just as they would have been in a real hospital. Something crackled as he yanked on the shorts.

Confused, Alan patted his pockets. They'd been emptied... or nearly so. A zippered inner compartment contained a folded piece of paper, which Alan pulled out and examined. Gordon's note.

_'Out to N.Y. ... Father ... Back late.'_

_G.D.T.4_

Signs and influences. His mother was forever talking about them. Nodding to himself, Alan re-folded the note, put it safely away, and finished dressing. Then, scooping up three hypodermics that lay upon a chilled metal instrument tray, Alan headed for the door, and a rescue.

_Not far away:_

Tania inclined her head respectfully as the General's image flashed up on the screen before her. His voice and face were electronically blurred, but she knew it was he, for no one else used this particular encryption. When the screen buzzed, she'd ordered the guards away and closed the door to her makeshift 'war room'. All was private, and as secure as she could make it.

"Tania," the distorted voice snapped out.

"Speak, Sir. The line is secure." She kept her gloved hands clasped behind her back, her tawny eyes on the floor. Humble, apparently, and terribly patient.

"You are behind schedule. When I give orders, I expect results. I'm not getting them. If you aren't capable of handling this assignment, I have an agent more than ready to replace you."

Briefly, Tania considered explaining the situation; that the subject's resistance was greater than expected, that her team would soon be forced to try something dangerously experimental. She resisted the urge. The General cared nothing for excuses, only body counts and technology.

"Sir, you shall have your information by tomorrow morning. I swear it."

The distorted figure seemed to nod, saying,

"I hope so, Tania, for your sake. The Hood is waiting to take your position, and your life, should you fail."

As the transmission ended, Tania raised her head and smiled. _Let_ _him try. _The Hood would no more balk her plans than would that stubborn child, or the General himself, for that matter. After all, what were a few broken bodies to her, but fun and exercise?

_Elsewhere:_

Alan positioned himself beside the door, out of sight, but close enough to spring on anyone who crossed the threshold. Then, taking hold of an IV stand, he hurled it across the room, making as much noise as possible. Wiping his sweaty palms on his shorts, he listened as footsteps hurried up the hall. The door opened. A scowling orderly strode into the room, eyes locked on the bed where Alan should have been, but wasn't.

Alan got behind him, cracked the stiffened edge of his hand as hard as he could against the back of the man's meaty neck. The orderly grunted, took a few wobbly steps, then started to turn around. Too late. Alan whipped out one of the drug-filled needles, jabbed it into his jailer's hip and compressed the plunger.

"Pleasant dreams, Butt-head!" he snarled, shoving the man onto his abandoned bed. The orderly made one attempt to rise. Then his eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed, snoring like an entire holding pen full of drunks. Hurriedly, Alan went through the man's pockets, coming up with a jack-knife, some kind of ID badge, and a bottle opener. Not much, but useful in a pinch, maybe.

The boy found himself shaking, again. He had to take a couple of deep, hard breaths to steady himself, before sliding out into the corridor.

_'Weird,' _he thought, looking around. The illusion of a hospital extended only a few tens of feet beyond his door, the tiled floor and sparkling white walls ending in bare concrete and plaster. There was a metal chair about twenty feet away to the right, a pencil stub and crossword puzzle resting on the seat. Okay. Alan filed that one away under: _'never trust people who like word games'_, and looked around.

To his left, the corridor was dark and deserted, the quiet hiss of a ventilation shaft, the languid dance of an insulation wisp, all he heard and saw. To his right... Was that a faint glow, around the corner, there? Another 'hospital set', maybe?

Patting his pockets to make sure of the needles and jack-knife, Alan crept forward. Several long minutes passed before he summoned the nerve to look around the corner.

More concrete and plaster, and then, about halfway down, bathed in a pool of fluorescent light, a heavy door with what seemed to be a reinforced window set in it. No guards, though. Alan breathed again.

_'Okay..., count of three,'_ he told himself, _'one... two... THREE!'_ And then he whipped around the corner at a low, crouching run, making for the distant door. Bad idea. His 'caretakers' harsh drug regimen had left Alan too weak for that much exercise. He arrived out of breath and woozy, clammy with sweat.

Peering nervously along the corridor, Alan tried the door, only to discover that it was locked. He cursed quietly, pounding his fist against the electronic scanning device that warded the cell. Then,

_'Wait..., where's that card...?' _

A hurried search through his pockets turned up the orderly's ID badge. Crossing his fingers, Alan turned the card so that its laser strip pointed toward the door, then drew it downward through the slot in the wall-mounted scanner, almost dropping the thing in his haste.

A small light on the scanning box flashed from red to green, a chime sounded, and then the door clicked open.

_'Hurry...,' _Alan told himself. _'Gotta hurry! Our luck won't hold forever.'_

The cell lit up when he entered, bright enough to be blinding. Alan gave a small, involuntary cry, lifting one hand to his eyes. In the few seconds it took him to clear the spots from his vision, a figure who'd been crouched against the padded rear wall pushed himself to his feet, head lowered, ready to charge the door. Gordon.

He was wearing a strait jacket, some kind of hospital pajama pants, and a feral scowl. His face was bruised and cut, the canvas around the jacket's needle port blood-stained. Apparently, he'd been giving his captors a very bad time.

"You're alive...," Gordon whispered numbly, sagging back against the padded wall.

Alan managed a grin.

"Funny, I was gonna say the same thing to you." Hurrying over, he helped his brother to his feet again, and pulled out the jack-knife, saying, "C'mon man, let's get you out of this piece of crap."

It was hard work, sawing through nylon straps and heavy canvas with a blade no longer than his thumb, but Alan managed it, freeing Gordon without cutting him up too much in the process.

"They told me you were dead," his brother said very quietly, "That I got clear of the wreck, but you were trapped and burnt up. They said all this business about... you know..., that it was me raving 'cause I was tryin' t' make up f'r lettin' you drive, an' gettin' you killed."

"Yeah," Alan replied, working loose the last strap. "Sounds familiar. I got to hear that you were thrown out of the car and died on the road. They kept asking me questions about you, and, uh, the family business."

"Did y' tell them anythin'?"

Alan shook his head. "No... I don't think so. Did you?"

"Nothin' I'd care t' repeat, or they'd want t' hear again," Gordon growled.

His clothes turned up in a small side room. Their wrist comms were gone, though, and judging from the matching scars they sported on the backs of their left hands, their ID chips had been removed.

"Guess we're on our own, then," said Alan, keeping watch at the door while his brother struggled into his clothing.

Gordon shook his head. "They'll be looking... jus' need t' get quit of this place, an' make a signal."

They decided to head downstairs, toward the back of the echoing building, which seemed to be a half-finished office complex. Peering through a window, the brothers saw a dimly lit parking lot with a few cars in it. Their target.

Alan couldn't help noticing that Gordon was looking a little troubled. Something was bothering him, but Alan didn't realize what, until they came to a water fountain. Gordon lunged for the quietly humming dispenser, drank without lifting his head for a solid two minutes. Then he rubbed a little water on his face, let it pour across one hand, enjoying the cold, silky feel of it. He'd actually shoved past Alan to get to the fountain.

Recovering a bit, he gave his younger brother a slightly embarrassed smile and cut off the water.

"Sorry. They couldn' get near me, the last day or so..., so they quit lettin' me drink or eat. Didn't mean t' knock youover like that."

Alan shook his head, as they continued along the corridor, an important thought slowly coming to him.

"No prob, Dude. Hey...," he whispered, "you remember when I got mad at Scott that time, on the island? And I went rock climbing and fell downthat old lava tunnel?"

Gordon glanced over, curious.

"Yeah. What of it?"

"Well, you came looking for me, remember? And then you found me, only you decided to climb down and see if I was okay, and you fell in, too, and we were both stuck. Remember?"

"Right," Gordon grunted sourly. "So I'm thick."

"Nah..., you're the best friend I've ever had. You cover for me all the time, and let me get away with stuff..., and I've been taking advantage of that. Just wanted to say I'm sorry, and that I'm gonna change, starting now. I mean it."

"Well...," his brother replied distractedly, eyes on the next bend in the hallway. "You came after me, once, when we were pullin' guys off that sub."

"Uh-huh..., 'Course, I had the sense to bring a rope."

Gordon turned and shoved him, temporarily forgetting the danger they were in. As he was clutching at the wall to regain his balance, Alan squinted through a half-open door and spied...,

"A telecom! Gordon, look, in that office! There's a comm screen! We can call for help!"

But his brother hesitated, stubbornly worried.

"I dunno, Alan... Somethin's wrong. Seems a little easy, doesn' it? Only one guard, place is deserted, an' now a telecom, jus' like that? Maybe we should...,"

Alan was already inside the bare little office, though, so Gordon reluctantly joined him, still protesting.

"Alan, it's not a good idea. Lines c'n be monitored, and...,"

"Relax! You said yourself we need to make a signal, remember? Just watch the door. I'll only take a second!"

Alan hurried to the comm screen's touch pad, hastily keyed in a certain number, and his secure code. He bit his lip, waiting; silently begging the call to go through. Moments later, the screen flashed, then cleared. John's image appeared. Not in Thunderbird 5. The computer had re-routed the call, after accepting his code. And just like that, unwittingly, Alan betrayed his older brother. No one realized it, though. Not yet.

John, looking deeply relieved, actually smiled at him.

"You two alright?" He asked, glancing past Alan, at Gordon.

"Been better," Alan admitted wearily. "And, uh..., if you happen to pass through LA, anytime soon...,"

"Already on our way," John told him. "We've got a fix on your position, and we'll be there in ten to fifteen minutes. Barricade yourselves in, stay low and wait for extraction. Understood?"

Alan nodded.

"Okay. And hurry, huh?"

"F.A.B. See you in a few minutes."

Alan turned to Gordon as the screen went blank.

"Hear that? They're coming!"

Gordon un-tensed enough to smile a bit. Maybe the phone hadn't been such a bad idea, he thought to himself.

Then a hidden wall panel slid aside, and a cadre of armed thugs began pouring into the room. Not again... ! Gordon lunged for the closest intruder, seized the man's gun hand and forced it down, smashing a fist repeatedly into his soon pulped and bloody face. Revenge felt very, very good. He wrestled the gun away, hurled the semi-conscious thug into several of his fellows, and whirled to cover his brother.

Alan was holding his own, using a rapid combination of kicks and jabs to keep his attackers at bay. Moving around a lot, though; Gordon couldn't get a clear shot off. So he dove back into the melee instead, and fought his way to his brother's side. Grabbing hold of one guy's hair, he brought the man's head down, hard, to meet his up-rushing knee, then flung him back through the door. Ducked a wild punch, felt a bullet hiss past his ear, reached down and up-ended a heavy metal office desk on a couple of gunmen, then found himself pressed anew from the right. Something grazed his jaw. Large fist, attached to an even larger guard. A familiar one. Guy had the reach on him, and about fifty pounds. Bit like boxing Virgil, really..., only neither combatant was pulling his punches. Gordon dodged a roundhouse that looked like it would have taken his head off, had it connected, then darted in while the big man was trying to recover his balance and delivered a vicious jab to his soft gut. The guard doubled over, wheezing, bringing that lantern jaw within easy reach of the follow-up left hook. He went down like a redwood, squashing two others. Alan put them to sleep with a couple of swift kicks to the head, and then all was still once more, and quiet.

The brothers looked around, wide-eyed and panting. Then Gordon jerked a thumb at the unconscious giant and said,

"My pile's bigger."

"Dude!" Alan protested hotly, "You were facing the door! I had to clean up what you let past! Which was a lot, by the way!"

Gordon flashed him a quick smile.

"Not bad, though. Seriously. Where'd you learn all that kicking stuff?"

John had said to hole up, but a room full of unconscious gunmen hardly seemed the best place to do that. As one, they turned and started for the corridor. Alan paused a moment to divest a guard of his weapons, saying,

"My mom put me in Karate, in the seventh grade, to, like, calm me down. Didn't work for crap, but I learned some really neat tricks. I... _urrf!"_

Gordon, who'd been peering through the door, half turned.

"Sorry, what did y...? _Bloody hell!"_

A dark-haired woman had seized Alan from behind. She had driven her long, sharp fingernails into his throat around the windpipe, and had the muzzle of a gun pressed tight to Alan's temple. She smiled at Gordon with the cold, unblinking patience of a snake.

"You two have given me much useful information, this evening. But we've little time remaining, and now I will have the rest. Drop your weapon, or he dies."

Murphy's words... _'One of these days, Kid, it's gonna be for real'_ ..., kept running through Gordon's head. He looked at his brother, trying to think what to do. Alan's blue eyes were very wide. He was scared to death.

_"I got him into this...,'_ Gordon realized. _'I'm the one they recognized, and I'm the idiot who let him drive. This is all my fault.'_

Without a word, he dropped the gun, heard it clatter to the concrete floor.

"Very good. Now, on your knees, hands behind your head, fingers laced."

Alan tried to say something, but the woman tightened her already cruel grip on his airway. Blood began trickling along his neck, pooling in the little depression at the base of his throat.

Gordon's legs folded, and he dropped to his knees, bringing his hands up behind his head, as instructed. Someone came up from behind, seized first one arm, then the other, and cuffed his hands roughly behind his back.

The woman's smile widened slightly. Giving Alan a little caress, she handed him off to one of the men who'd accompanied her, then stepped over to Gordon.

"Pity there isn't more time," she remarked lightly, pushing the auburn hair off his forehead. "I do _so_ love children. But, we've a last bit to get at, haven't we?" Reaching into a pocket of her equipment vest, she pulled out a little rubber-stoppered bottle. "You'll find that this frees up the memory, I think. Experimental, true, but highly effective in field trials, and only occasionally fatal." Then, "Hold him still."

Yanking his shirt off one shoulder, she dripped a bit of the bottle's contents onto Gordon's skin.

"Now, what was it your darling little brother said? 'Pleasant dreams'?"

It sank in at once, like nerve gas, searing all the way. All of a sudden, Gordon wasn't in control of his body anymore. He felt weirdly dislocated, as though he were off to one side watching as the woman put her questions to him. She was asking... asking something about an engineer; about the engineer's name. Brains? _'But',_ Gordon thought, hearing himself saying something, _'I don't know his real name... nobody does...'_

Alan's hand crept slowly over to his pocket, the one with the hypodermics and the knife. If only his captor remained distracted a little longer, caught up in what that bitch was doing to Gordon...,

He reached the pocket, fumbled within, holding his breath, then yanked out a needle, flipped the plastic tip off with his thumb, and smashed it as hard as he could into the goon's thigh.

The man screamed and let him go, trying to rip away the needle and reach for his sidearm at the same time. Alan shoved him aside and lunged. He collided with the woman, who whipped around and brought the edge of her hand down against the base of his neck. Something snapped. Alan's right arm flopped uselessly, exploding with sudden pain. Nothing wrong with his left, though. Gritting his teeth, the youngest Tracy lashed out with his fist. She ducked, swept a leg out in a low, fast circle, and knocked Alan's feet out of under him. He hit the ground with a hoarse cry, just as gunfire erupted in the corridor outside.

"Over here!" He called out. "We're in the off...!" Another explosion of pain, as the woman drove the heel of her boot into his kidneys. Then she met Penelope. Or, more accurately, Penelope's fist. Teeth and blood sprayed the far wall. Penelope seized the woman's braid in one hand, and the back of her vest in the other, and slung her to the floor, only to be tripped herself. Soon they were wrestling across the concrete, gouging, biting, punching and cursing like a couple of brawling sailors. Standing off to one side, Parker casually shot anyone who attempted to interfere.

Next, Scott, John, Virgil and Jeff piled into the room at a dead run, sidearms drawn. What little resistance was left, they ended emphatically and permanently, shooting with deadly precision and pent-up rage.

When the smoke cleared, and the few living enemy agents were being carted off by a local operative, the family gathered around Alan and Gordon. The youngest Tracy was crouched by his brother's side. Looking up at his father, he said, a little unsteadily,

"I can't wake him up, Dad. He kind of mumbles if I ask him a question, but he won't wake up."

Jeff looked away suddenly, hearing the dim, ghostly wail of sirens. Still a ways off, but growing nearer by the instant.

"Virgil..., John..., pick up your brothers. We'll deal with this at home. Scott, locate Gennine and TinTin, and bring them to the island. I want everyone safe at base. That includes you, Penny; _and_ Parker. No exceptions, no arguments. Understood?"

Penelope came forward, Parker behind her with Tania's limp form slung over one shoulder.

"I understand, Jeff, and I appreciate the sentiment, but what of our... acquaintance... here?"

"Bring her along," Jeff replied, his voice hard. "I have a few questions to ask."

Then, as they were leaving, he placed a hand on John's arm.

"Thank you for finding your brothers," he said quietly. "You did a fine job, Son, and I'm... grateful... and very proud."

Surprised, John shifted Gordon just a bit, easing the pressure on his gun hand. Then, returning his father's gaze, he nodded.

"Thanks. And...," returning to an earlier question, "I would have given it back."

Jeff smiled wryly, followed his second son down the corridor.

"Got a real head for business, I see. We'll have to sit down and talk soon, figure out where the holes are, and plug them up. Among other things."

He had a cold, terrible feeling that his family was about to come under siege, and he wasn't at all sure they were ready.


End file.
